“ ‘Walk together.Holding each other’s tails,’ ”
“ ‘Walk together.Holding each other’s tails,’ ”
“ ‘Walk together.Holding each other’s tails,’ ”
“ ‘Walk together.
Holding each other’s tails,’ ”
quoted Wally, dreamily. “It would be lovely; only they’re not supposed to do it in the middle of the day. Personally, I don’t like monkeys.”
“Well, neither do I,” Norah said. “But it’s all so wonderful—to think I’m actually coming to a place where there can be such things walking about, and not in a zoo. Wally, doesn’t it make you feel queer?”
“Yes, rather,” admitted Wally. “I’ve been pinching myself, to try and realise that I was really coming to Africa. Africa has always seemed so awfully far off—a sort of confused dream of Scipio, and Moors, and dervishes, and lions, and King Solomon’s Mines, and the Mountains of the Moon. The Boer War brought it nearer, of course, but even so, it was still pretty mysterious. You know, I was in Tasmania last year, and Edward’s car broke down near a saw-mill on the Huon. I was poking about while they fixed her up, and I sat down on a pile of sleepers.”
“Yes?” said Norah, as he paused. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“No reason—only I got talking to one of the men, and he told me those sleepers were being cut for the Cape to Cairo railway. That made me feel awfully queer—to think I’d been sitting on a sleeper that was going to lie out in the middle of Africa, and have fiery, untamed lions and giraffes and elephants strolling across it.”
“For all you know it never got further than a Cape Town suburb,” said Jim, unfeelingly.
“Oh, get out!” Wally uttered, in disgust. “If I like to think of the zoo walking over it, why shouldn’t I?”
“Why not, indeed—when it began with a donkey sitting on it?” grinned Jim. “Anyhow, here’s old Africa; and I don’t see that this part of it is unlike any other old wharf I’ve seen.”
They were slowly coming in towards the pier. On the left lay a grey warship, workmanlike and trim, with smoke coming lazily from her four funnels; they could catch glimpses of white-clad sailors on her deck. There were many ships lying at the long wharves. Ashore, the streets were bare and brown and dusty. It was Saturday afternoon, and there were few people about.
“It doesn’t look exciting,” Wally admitted. “Not much of King Solomon’s Mines about this outlook, anyhow. But you can’t judge any place by its wharves. These seem much like the Melbourne ones, only dirtier. You would think Melbourne was awful enough if you judged it by its ports.”
“It looks lovely back there,” Norah said, indicating a long semicircle of green hills that rose behind the dusty town.
“That’s the Berea, where all the lucky people of Durban live,” said the doctor, coming up. “You must take a trip round there. Going to stay ashore, Miss Norah?”
“Yes—Dad says so,” Norah answered. “The captain advised him—he says that it would be horrid to be on the ship here for two days.”
“And she coaling!” said the doctor, feelingly. “It’s horrible—dirty, noisy, and hot, and your cabin has to be always locked, because the Kaffir boys are everywhere, and they’d steal the clothes off your back or the pipe out of your mouth.”
“That’s what the captain said. So we’re going to a hotel.” Norah gave vent suddenly to a little jig of delight, principally executed on one foot.
“Why, what’s the matter?” the doctor asked.
“Look!” said Norah. “They’re Kaffirs, aren’t they? I haven’t seen any before.” She pointed to a group of men coming across the wharf yard—muscular, brown fellows, bare-footed, many of them stripped to the waist, and all chattering and laughing among themselves.
The doctor stared.
“Yes, they’re Kaffirs,” he admitted, without any enthusiasm. “And a low set of animals they are, too.”
“They don’t look exactly lovely,” Norah said. “Only you see, it’s so queer to me to be in a country where there are coloured people everywhere. I can’t help feeling excited.”
“And it’s within my memory,” said the doctor, “that an Australian boy came to my school—and we English boys were all quite indignant because he could speak our language, and because he wasn’t black! We had a kind of idea that every one in Australia was black!”
“But how queer!” said Norah, laughing.
“That’s what we said when we discovered that he was white. But you have seen your aborigines, haven’t you, Miss Norah?”
“Oh, I’ve seen them, of course!” Norah answered, “some of them, that is. There are not so very many left now, you know, especially in Victoria; they are dying out fast, and the remaining ones are principally kept in their special settlements. And I never remember enough of them to make it seem that they were really the people of the country.”
“Poor wretches!” said the doctor. “It makes one feel a bit sorry for them.”
“It wouldn’t if you knew them,” Jim put in. “They’re a most unpleasant crowd—the lowest, I believe, in the scale of civilisation. Useless, shifty, lazy, thieving—you can’t trust many of them. They will steal, and they won’t work.”
“But I’ve heard you speak of one that you employ,” said the doctor.
“Oh, Billy! But I always tell Dad that Billy is the only decent black fellow left. And he, like the curate’s egg, is only good in patches. He’s very fond of us, and rather afraid of us, and so he works well—on a horse. But if you take him off a horse he’s a most hopeless person. Now those fellows”—Jim indicated the gang of chattering Kaffirs—“may not be perfection, but at least they can be made to work.”
“Oh, they’ll work well enough!” admitted the doctor. “But they’re rather like animals. Watch them, now.”
He took out a penny, holding it aloft for a moment. The ship was nearly alongside the wharf, and his action was instantly noticed by the noisy black throng below, who broke into imploring shouts. The penny, flung among them, fell on the wharf, burying itself in coal-dust; but almost before it had fallen the Kaffirs had hurled themselves upon it, shouting, fighting, scrambling, packed somewhat like a football “scrum,” with bare, brown backs heaving and struggling. Those unable to get into the mêlée hovered on the outskirts, relieving their feelings by beating the backs of their friends wildly. For a few moments complete pandemonium reigned. Then a big fellow heaved himself out of the press and sprang aside, brandishing the penny aloft, and grinning from ear to ear. The others took his victory in perfect good part, grinning as widely themselves, and making no attempt to interfere with the victor as he tucked away his booty in some obscure corner of his ragged and scanty clothing.
“Losh!” ejaculated Jim. “Never did I see such exertion over one small penny!”
“It would be just the same over a halfpenny,” the doctor said. He threw one—and the scene was reenacted, with equal vigour. The successful combatant was a mere boy, who executed a dance of triumph as he concealed the spoils of war.
The other passengers on thePerseushad taken up the game by this, and coppers fell freely on the wharf; some caught in the air, others made the centres of more wild struggles.
“Big animals—that’s all they are,” the doctor said, looking at the heaving mass of brown backs. “It’s all very well when they scramble for coppers; but they will fight in precisely the same way for the most disgusting-looking refuse from the cook’s galley, flung into the coal-dust as those pence are flung. The winners gather up their prizes and proceed to eat them, coal-dust and all. It isn’t an edifying sight. You wouldn’t think it pretty if they were pariah dogs—but considered as human beings, well——!” The doctor left his sentence eloquently unfinished.
Along the deck came Mr. Linton, hurriedly, his face full of joy.
“Dad’s got news,” Jim said, quickly.
“News!—I should think so!” said his father. “We’ve got theEmden!”
“No!”
“Yes—and it’s the Australian ship that finished her—theSydney. Caught her off Cocos Island.”
“Our ship!” came in a delighted chorus. “Oh, that’s too good to be true!”
“It is true, all the same—and more power to our baby Navy!” said the squatter, beaming. “Of course, there was no real fight in it; theEmdenwas hopelessly outclassed. Still, theSydneywas all there when she was wanted. It’s worth being without news for so long, to get anything as good as this.”
“Rather!” said Jim. “Thank goodness that blessed little wasp is out of the way of the transports!”
“She was near enough to be dangerous,” said his father. “And she ran up a big enough butcher’s bill for us before we got her.” His face darkened; the exploits of the predatory German cruiser had not made pleasant British reading. “She has a mighty big bundle of scalps to her credit.”
“Well, she played the game,” Jim said. “As far as I can see, she’ll go down to history as almost the only chivalrous fighter the Germans had. I reckon her captain must be an uncommonly decent sort—he had to be a pirate, but he was such a good fellow with it. You can’t help respecting him.”
“No—nor being glad he’s out of business,” Wally said. “I’m not keen on being sunk by any pirate, no matter how gentlemanly. But, of course, though theEmden’s captain did treat people awfully well, not even a German would sink ships regardless of human life”—wherein Wally spoke without foreknowledge of later German tactics. “Any other news, Mr. Linton?”
“I haven’t seen any papers yet, but I believe there is nothing special—a sort of deadlock everywhere,” the squatter answered. His eyes widened suddenly. “There’s an ornamental person! What do you think of him, Norah?”
Norah turned, following the direction of his gaze. A man drawing a rickshaw had just trotted gently to the wharf, and, putting down his shafts, stood erect. Without doubt, he was an ornamental person. He was a Zulu, considerably over six feet in height, and of powerful build, with well-cut features, and a bearing proud enough to be something more than a mere human horse. His dress was striking. A close-fitting tunic of scarlet and white stripes, over short scarlet knickerbockers, only served to outline his mighty frame. Across his back and chest were criss-crossed strips of bright-coloured embroidery. There were bangles on his arms, from wrist to shoulder, and bangles above his knees. He was bare-footed—but his legs were painted in white from the knees downwards in an elaborate design to represent boots and gaiters.
But his glory was in his head-dress. A tight-fitting skull-cap was crowned with the most amazing erection that ever bewildered a newcomer. Above his brow curved away two enormous bullock-horns, dyed scarlet. Between them, a straight aigrette of porcupine quills quivered with every movement; and behind, a long plume of pampas grass, of vivid yellow, streamed downwards, until it touched a monkey-skin, which, fastened to his shoulders, trailed down his back. From different angles long scarlet feathers stuck out; and above each ear was fastened a native snuff-box—a gourd the size of a tennis-ball, profusely ornamented with brass. He was a heartsome sight.
“Good gracious!” Norah gasped. “Are there many like him?”
As if in answer a second rickshaw came round the corner of a wharf building. The Zulu who drew it might have been the twin brother of the first man in size and features; but his dress was blue and white, and one of his bullock-horns curved up, and the other down, which gave him a curiously rakish appearance. They were dyed scarlet and black, and his feathers were of every colour of the rainbow. The first man broke into a rapid torrent of guttural, clicking speech, and for a moment they chattered like monkeys. Then they looked up, catching sight of the watching passengers on thePerseus, and each broad, black face widened into a smile from ear to ear, while they beckoned invitingly towards their waiting chariots.
“Many!” said the doctor, laughing. “Oh, any number, Miss Norah—that is the cab of Durban!”
“Daddy!—do we go in them?”
“Would you like to?” said her father, regarding the peculiar equipage with some distrust.
“Rather!” said Norah, breathlessly.
“I don’t think I’d look well in one,” said Mr. Linton, doubtfully. “Surely they’re meant for the young and frivolous, doctor?”
“Not a bit,” said the doctor, laughing. “Every one uses them—they’re awfully handy things. You can’t possibly keep out of them!”
“That settles it!” said Norah, thankfully. “We’ll go, Daddy. Can we go soon?”
“That red and white chap has put the evil eye on Norah,” said Wally, laughing. “She’s bewitched, and small blame to her—did you ever see such an insinuating smile? Don’t let us keep her waiting, Mr. Linton, or she’ll turn into a black cat and disappear for ever—in a phantom rickshaw!”
“We may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. The gangway was down; already a swarm of Kaffir boys were coming on deck, unsavoury enough at close quarters to cure even Norah of undue hankerings after this particular brand of noble savage. Their bare feet left tracks of coal-dust on the spotless decks, at which the doctor shrugged disgustedly.
“Poor old ship—she’ll be coal from end to end soon,” he observed. “Are all your cabins locked, by the way?”
“Yes—we handed them over to the steward’s care,” Mr. Linton answered. “Suit-cases all on deck, boys?”
Everything was ready, and in a few moments was delivered to the hotel agent, a busy half-caste who came on board suffused with his own importance. Then, with no heavier impedimenta than cameras, the Billabong party went ashore—to be received with a delighted air of welcome by the rickshaw “boys.” Mr. Linton and Norah boarded one rickshaw, Jim and Wally the other; the steeds gripped the shafts, said authoritatively, “Sit ba-a-a-ck!” and started on the long jog to the city, the little brass bells on their wrists jingling at each stride.
The rickshaw of Durban is an enticing vehicle. It holds two people comfortably: it is well-cushioned, with an adjustable hood, and has rubber tyres; and both it and its “boy” are as clean as polishing can make them. The “boy’s” bare feet are almost soundless on the well-paved roads; the rickshaw runs smoothly, with no apparent effort on the part of the big Zulu. He is a cheerful soul, with a keen eye to the main chance; his smile is always ready, and he passes other “boys” with a quick volley of chaff that appears to give equal delight to both. Very certainly he will demand double or treble fare if he thinks there is the slightest chance of obtaining more than his due. He loves to appear quite ignorant of English, once he has caught his passenger, and will jog on serenely into space, oblivious of any command to stop, knowing that he is piling up the sum to be paid him eventually. For these reasons, it is as well to learn from the steward a few elementary native words of command, which are apt to imbue the “boy” with a painful regard for his fare’s might and learning. Failing this, a stick or umbrella long enough to prod him is of much value.
With all these small drawbacks, the rickshaw “boy” is a delightful person, combining the heart of a child with the business instincts of a financier. Even when there is strong reason to suspect that he has grossly overcharged you, it is quite impossible to be angry with him, his smile is so friendly and his manner so insinuating. The effect might be less marked if he were not so extremely ornamental. But a chocolate-coloured, highly-polished Hercules, clad in shining raiment, jingling with brazen ornaments, and crowned by a head-dress calculated to excite envy in the Queen of Sheba, claims affection in a fashion denied to lesser mortals.
Norah found her red and white-clad steed wholly delightful. She gave to his great back, with its flowing monkey-skin, more attention than to the dusty streets through which they were passing, though they, too, were not without their special interests—groups of natives, Kaffir women with their brown babies tucked into the corner of their bright shawls, little native boys with the splendid uprightness that comes from many generations who have carried loads on their heads, Indians in gaudy, flowing draperies, and slouching half-castes, with evil, crafty faces. Other rickshaws passed them, taking passengers back to ships at the Point, or jogging down, empty, in the hope of picking up a fare. There were long teams of mules, in Government ammunition carts; and in a railway yard they caught sight of a train painted with the Red Cross, and suddenly remembered that South Africa, too, was at war. Women were sitting in the dust by the roadside, with great baskets of fruit—the travellers from the land of fruit sniffed disdainfully at its quality; and there were hawkers of cool drinks and ice-cream, which appeared to be of a peculiarly poisonous nature. Then the unsavoury streets widened to a fine road on the sea-front—and they ran past imposing hotels and clubs, which looked out on a fleet of small yachts, lying at anchor or lazily sailing before the light breeze; and then came a sharp turn into a broad street, past a square where statues were surrounded by beds of flowers that blazed in the afternoon sun, and a great building, the beautiful Town Hall, shone on the further side; and the “boys” dropped the shafts in front of the Post Office and grinned by way of explaining that this was the heart of Durban town.
“I’d give half my kingdom,” said Wally, as they met on the footpath, “if I could import that turn-out to Melbourne and drive down Collins Street on a Saturday morning. Just fancy that gorgeous black chap—and the look on the Melbourne policeman’s face as he caught sight of him!”
“Just fancy the horses!” said Jim, laughing. “Wouldn’t there be an interesting stampede!”
“Look at them now!” said Norah delightedly. A long row of rickshaws stood on the other side of the street, waiting to be hired, their “boys” chattering in little groups or brushing their miniature carriages with feather dusters. A man approached them, bearing the unmistakable tourist stamp, and immediately every “boy” sprang to attention—patting the rickshaw seat, whistling softly, yet urgently, waving their bright dusters, while some, between the shafts, pranced wildly, apparently overcome by the sheer joy of being alive. There was a storm of guttural pleading. “Take me, sar!” “No, me—he no good!” “Me is fast boy, sar!” “Me is faster!” The great bronze faces were vivid with excited impatience; white teeth flashed, and rainbow plumes nodded.
“And it’s all for a sixpenny fare—and they’re cab-horses!” ejaculated Mr. Linton. “By Jove, just fancy an impi of those fellows under Cetewayo going out to battle—with broad spears instead of feather dusters!”
Jim whistled under his breath, watching the row of child-like giants. Then he burst into a laugh. On the far side of the row was a Zulu who had been unable to get round in time to join in the general effort to attract the tourist. He was contenting himself by stooping and peering between the wheel-spokes, grinning from ear to ear as he beat upon them in the hope of catching the passenger’s eye. The effect was indescribably ludicrous.
“Isn’t he lovely!” laughed Norah. “Oh, Jimmy, can you imagine a stolid Melbourne cabby playing ‘Bo-peep’ behind his wheels like that!”
“I’d give a lot to see it,” Jim said, “especially if I could dress him in that kit first. I wonder what’s the duty on one rickshaw complete with Zulu—it would be rather a lark to import one to Australia after the war!”
“You couldn’t do it—the cabmen would rise up and slay you,” Wally said. “Well, I want to go inland, and see those chaps on their native heath. Great Scott, what fighting-men they’d make!”
“Once,” said Mr. Linton. “Not now—since they learned the ways of civilisation. But what they must have been! Did you ever hear of the impi that failed in battle, under Chaka? He mustered them afterwards and told them their punishment. There was a cliff half a mile away, with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet into a rocky gorge; at a signal their officers gave them the word to march, and took them straight forward, over the edge!”
“And they went over?” Norah was wide-eyed with horror.
“Every man. The king stood near the edge to watch; and as they passed him they tossed their shields aloft and gave him the royal salute—‘Bayété!’ Then they went down, like warriors. They knew it was the only thing left to them; it was not possible to fail the king and to continue to live.”
“He gave one impi a chance, though,” Wally said. “They were a very famous fighting regiment, and in some way or other they disobeyed him. Chaka didn’t want to kill them—possibly he was short of recruits, like Great Britain! But he paraded them and told them that because of their previous good record he would spare their lives, under one condition—that they left their assegais in the kraal, went out into the bush, and brought him a living lion, full-grown, with teeth and claws perfect!”
“What—with their bare hands?” Jim asked, incredulously.
“There wasn’t a weapon among the whole crowd; all they were allowed was rope to bind him. They did it, too; marched out into the bush and caught their lion and brought him in to the king. It must have been something of a job. Forty were killed, and over two hundred clawed. You’d call those chaps warriors, wouldn’t you?”
“And now they haul one round in rickshaws! Doesn’t it make one feel small!” Jim ejaculated. “Well, Chaka was a cruel brute, but he must have been a good deal of a man himself to be able to handle such men as those fellows, and send them marching to death, saluting him. Leaders like that don’t seem to get born nowadays.”
“Let me commend to your notice, Norah, that method of doing your hair!” said Mr. Linton, indicating two Kaffir girls who were passing. Their hair was drawn tightly back from their faces and dressed in a kind of hard club, about a foot long, that stuck out stiffly from the backs of their heads, slanting upwards.
“Good gracious!” said Norah, weakly.
“Do you suppose they take that erection down every night?” Jim asked.
“No, indeed—it looks calculated to last for years,” Norah answered. “I wonder how on earth they build it, and why.”
“It’s a handle,” Wally said, solemnly. “Their husbands pick them up by it when they’re tired. Also it might be used as a flag-staff, or a hat-peg: you could find ever so many uses about a house for it. And then it saves them for ever from buying hats. They might possibly make a forage-cap sitting on one eyebrow work in with that hair, but no other kind of head-dress would fit on. Think of the economy!”
“Think of trying to sleep in it!” said Norah, gazing sympathetically after the retreating brown ladies. “It could only be comfortable if they lay on their noses.”
“Well, their noses would rather give you the impression that they did,” Jim said. “Most of them are as flat as a pancake. I say, do we stand on the steps of this post office all day? Because I saw a shop with a touching legend about strawberries across the street; and I haven’t seen a strawberry for nearly a year. Let’s explore.”
They explored, and found the Durban strawberries so good that the exploration was indefinitely prolonged; then they sought curio-shops, and rummaged among assegais and knob-kerries, rhinoceros-hide shields, Zulu trinkets, Kaffir wire-work, ostrich feathers, and queer carved figures; and Norah found herself the delighted possessor of a little silver box with top and bottom of beautiful dark-blue agate, veined with white. It was very hot, and the city streets, crowded and dusty, were not inviting; so they hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly along a wide road that led away from the town and towards the ocean beach. There was a steep pull up a long hill, which made the passengers strongly inclined to get out and walk, except that no one else in rickshaws seemed to think of doing so. The “boys” went up it at a good pace, though panting audibly. At the top they came in sight of the sea; a long strip of beach, on which big rollers pounded incessantly. On the left the steep slope down to it was terraced in lawn and garden, with seats here and there, summer-houses overgrown with gay creepers, and fountains, throwing aloft sparkling jets of water. The clean salt air blew strongly towards them.
“Sit ba-a-a-ck!” said the “boys” suddenly.
The Australians obeyed, not too soon. The rickshaws tilted back alarmingly as they shot down the hill. The Zulus rested their elbows on the shafts and balanced themselves in the air, their legs taking strides that were apparently gigantic, but never touching the ground with their feet. It was a spectacular performance—by no means comfortable, and distinctly nerve-shaking. Faster and faster went the rickshaws, and further and further back they tilted.
“If I get out of this alive,” said Jim, “I guess I’m born to be hanged!”
They came to the foot of the hill, and swung round a corner so abruptly that to find themselves still intact seemed almost a miracle. The Zulu came down to earth and the rickshaw to a horizontal position; the occupants righted themselves with sighs of relief. Still under the impetus of that wild descent, the “boys” raced along a level strip of roadway, and drew up at a big hotel that fronted the beach. They let down the shafts gently, and turned to their passengers, each chocolate countenance bearing a grin from ear to ear.
“My is a nice boy!” said Norah’s steed, modestly.
“You are,” said Mr. Linton, getting out. “You’re also closely related to an assassin, I think. How many people do you kill in the year?”
The Zulu grinned yet more widely, apparently under the impression that his acrobatic efforts were receiving the praise they merited.
“Two shillin’,” said he, blandly, and accepted the coin with an air of condescension, while his companion did the same. They trotted off smartly, lest their passengers should discover that they had paid double fare and take steps of vengeance.
The hotel was cool and spacious, with big rooms and wide verandahs. Norah’s window looked out upon the sea, stretching to the misty horizon over which they had come. Beneath her, the life of the beach surged. War, people said, had made Durban quiet; few of the up-country settlers had followed their usual custom of coming down for the bathing, since most of the men were fighting, and every one else was busy guarding property. But Norah thought she had never seen such a busy beach. Motors, carriages, and rickshaws passed and repassed on the wide road beneath her, with clanging, noisy electric trams; further down, the terraces were thronged with people, and the cafes showed a stream of customers going in and out. Children were paddling and digging in the sand; in a rotunda a military band was playing softly.
In the sea itself, a semicircular pier curved right out into the water, surrounding a stretch of surf. Men were fishing from the far side of the pier; Norah could see immensely long rods, and once a gleam in the air as a big fish was landed over the rail. But her interest centred on the enclosed water, where hundreds of people were bathing in the breakers that came rolling in from the sea. Durban bathing was famous, the doctor had told her, since it combined the excitement and delight of surfing with perfect safety. Norah watched them, fascinated. Some would wait, waist-deep, for the breaker to come in behind them and carry them on its crest ashore; others would face it, and as it came, dive right through it, to swim in the more tranquil heave of water behind the crest. There were old and young men and women; boys and girls, and tiny children, most of them daring the deepest water, while a few paddled cheerfully near the edge, sat down and shrieked when a wave came tumbling in, and, if they did not swim, at any rate became extremely wet and happy.
“Why do women always yell when they bathe?” asked Jim, coming in. “I knocked three times, by the way, but you didn’t hear me.”
“They don’t,” Norah said indignantly, ignoring his apology. “At least sensible ones don’t.”
“Then it’s the insensible ones that bathe,” Jim said, sticking to his point. “At least nine-tenths of the women there scream when a wave hits them—and it’s the same in any place you go to. I often wonder”—reflectively—“how they break themselves of the habit sufficiently to avoid screaming in the bathroom at home!”
“Jimmy, you are an ass,” said his sister, politely. She looked up at him with pleading. “It’s hot, and the sea looks lovely; I won’t yell, if you’ll take me to bathe.”
“That’s what I came for,” Jim answered. “Dad is deep in the last three weeks’ papers, and Wally and I are pining for a swim. Come on!” They plunged downstairs, found Wally awaiting them on the verandah, and hurried down the terrace to the sea; and in five minutes Norah was having her first taste of surfing, getting knocked flat by waves and buried temporarily beneath what seemed thousands of tons of water, coming up to the surface, breathless, but happy, and swimming wildly until another breaker came over her; and learning in a very short time to meet them and make use of them, diving through their green curves and coming gloriously ashore upon their hollow backs. They stayed until the sun left the sky, and the water grew chilly; then, damp and hilarious, and exceedingly hungry, climbed up to the hotel.
Mr. Linton was standing on the verandah, looking out.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said; “you were so long that I’ve been mentally recalling the treatment of the apparently drowned. Had a good bathe?”
“Oh, glorious!” said the bathers. “Is it time for dinner?”
Ten minutes later they were enjoying it in a big dining-room that was open on one side to the verandah, and to the darkening sea. Lights began to flash out all round the semicircle of the pier, and along the terraces—though the waiter, a bare-footed Indian in white clothes, told them regretfully that since the war the fountains no longer were red and green at night, but were turned off when dusk fell!
“It seems a rum tribute to war,” Wally said. “But I suppose it’s all right.”
“Yes, sar—certainly, sar,” said the waiter.
The hum of traffic did not cease, and the shouts of the bathers came up plainly from the surf. The Billabong party strolled along the beach in the hot dusk, and watched the heads bobbing in and out of the breakers, mysteriously seen in the streaks of light cast by the lamps on the encircling pier. Gradually the heat lessened and a pale moon climbed into the sky. They turned homeward when Norah was discovered yawning.
“Well, the sea is lovely, and all that,” Jim said, stretching his long frame as he rose. “But I think it’s loveliest when you’re off it. It’s good to feel tired again—I’m getting flabby with doing nothing on that old ship. Three weeks of solid sea certainly makes you enjoy land!”
“They hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly along a wide road.”
“They hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly along a wide road.”
CHAPTER XII.
WALLY awoke in the early dawn, under the stimulus of a damp sponge pressed firmly against his face.
“Beast!” he said sleepily, and hit out in a wild fashion which had, very naturally, no effect. He opened his eyes, to see Jim, in his pyjamas, grinning at him over the end of the bed.
“Of all the restless animals!” said the injured Mr. Meadows. “Why ever can’t you stay peaceably in bed on the rare occasion that you’ve got one to stay in—instead of a creaking shelf? There can’t be anything wrong, or you wouldn’t have a grin like a Cheshire cat!”
“There is not,” said his chum, affably. “Only I couldn’t sleep, and it seemed such a pity for you to be slumbering. Let’s get up.”
“Get up! Whatever for?”
“Oh, just to be up! It’s too hot to be in bed—and everything out of doors looks so jolly. I’ve been out on the balcony for ever so long.”
“Go to Jericho!” said Mr. Meadows, with finality, and turned over to slumber anew. This laudable desire was frustrated by the gradual withdrawal of all bedclothes; then, as the victim seemed resigned to sleeping on the bare mattress, Jim rolled him up in it and deposited him head-first on the floor. At this point slumber left the scene finally, and the outraged Wally gave himself up to vengeance.
Calmness was restored a little later, and the dishevelled combatants regarded each other.
“You hit like the kick of a pony,” said Jim, with respect, rubbing his shoulder. “Isn’t it ripping to have space to move again? People of our size aren’t meant for ship’s cabins.”
“I was meant for bed,” said Wally, bestowing an affectionate glance on that once placid retreat. “And you are meant for the gallows—and some day you’ll get there! Now, what do you want to do? I’m awake.”
“I’d noticed it,” said Jim, still handling his shoulder carefully. “Wonderful how well you wake up when you make up your mind to it! Oh, I don’t quite know what to do! But come out, anyhow.”
“Well, we haven’t got very much shore time, so we may as well make the best of it,” Wally assented, searching among the débris of the room for his socks. “Land certainly does feel good under one’s feet once more. Do we go for a walk along the beach, or what?”
“No, I don’t want any more sea-views for a bit,” Jim answered. “We’ll have plenty for the next month. I vote we go into the town and explore a bit. There may be nothing to see, but it’s full of such queer people that you never know what you may run into if you go off the beaten track—and of course we can’t do that when Norah is with us.”
“No. It sounds as if it might be interesting,” Wally said. “Jim, you great camel, one of my socks is in the basin!—I hope to goodness I packed up another pair.” He dived for his suit-case, and sighed with relief on finding a further supply. “That saves your skin, old man. By the way, what about the native market?”
“I was wondering,” said Jim. “Of course, it’s Sunday—but one doesn’t know how our Sunday affects these brown and black gentry. The doctor said it began at some unearthly hour, and I think he said it was always open, so it might be available on a Sunday.”
“We might try,” Wally said. “Markets are generally best if you catch ’em in the very early morning. Do you know where it is?”
“Only that it’s the other side of the town from here,” Jim answered. “We may pick up a stray rickshaw; or if not, we’ll find some one to ask. Anyhow, it will be an exploration.”
“Right-oh!” Wally agreed. “Durban seems to me much like any other place if you omit the people—those queer coloured mixtures are the most interesting part, by a long way. I’d like to find that market.”
“Same here. It will be a walk, anyhow—and then we’ll get back in time for a swim before breakfast. No need to leave a note on the pincushion, like the eloping young ladies in novels, I suppose?”
“Oh, we’ll be back before they’re awake!” Wally said. “Anyhow, your father would understand that we had gone off on a voyage of discovery.”
They dressed hurriedly and went downstairs through the quiet house. A sleepy Indian boy let them out. The streets were empty save for a few native sweepers; already there was promise of a hot day, but the morning was cool and fresh. The sea a sheet of rippling blue that creamed at the edge in long, slow rollers. The boys turned off the main thoroughfares, and struck downwards to the city.
Everything seemed asleep. There was no movement in any of the houses they passed, and no traffic in the streets. Occasionally a sleepy dog barked from a verandah, but without energy. There were many sleepers on these verandahs; often they caught glimpses of stretcher-beds behind bamboo blinds, where open-air enthusiasts had slumbered in outdoor freshness through the hot night. “Quite like Australia,” said Wally, approvingly. “This place isn’t so much unlike Brisbane, in many ways.”
“So I was thinking,” Jim observed. “Brisbane is a bit grubbier, and has more smells, and not such a mixture of races; but the Kanakas you see there are not unlike the Kaffirs here, and the place itself has a good many points of resemblance. It’s a kind of half-way house to the Old World Cities, I suppose.” He took out his pipe, and looked half regretfully at his friend. “I wish you smoked.”
“Not me!” said Wally, sturdily. “You waited until you were nineteen, and I’m jolly well going to. Don’t you bother.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to start!” Jim said. “I think it’s a fool game to begin too young. But I just wish you could, that’s all—it would be sociable, and I feel rather a pig; you must be hungry. It was feeling hungry that made me want a pipe.”
“I daresay we’ll pick up some grub somewhere,” Wally said, cheerfully. “I’m not hungry enough to worry about.” He looked at Jim keenly. “I believe there are ever so many times that you don’t smoke just because I’m there, and you don’t think it is sociable. Go on, you old donkey.”
“Donkey yourself,” returned Jim, somewhat shamefacedly, but fishing in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch. “I never did anything so stupid.” He changed the subject with thankfulness, having in common with his chum a great horror of any conversation that approached what they called “softness.” “Look at that jolly little kid!”
A small, brown person sat on a doorstep and looked at them with grave eyes. He might possibly have been two years old, but his gaze had the solemnity of extreme old age. He was clad in a very brief pink nightgown, and his mop of curly hair was standing erect, just as he had tousled it in sleep.
“Good morning,” said Wally, stopping and addressing the baby with a gravity equal to its own. “I hope you’re well. Will you shake hands?”
The baby contemplated the outstretched hand for a moment, and glanced again at the boyish face. Then he put his hand into Wally’s and permitted himself the ghost of a grave smile.
“I’ve seldom seen a better-mannered gentleman,” said Wally, stepping back. “See if he’ll be as civil to you, Jim.”
He was, and the smile broadened, though apparently he had no speech—as Wally said, his grin made him independent of words. Jim produced a penny and put it into the tiny paw that matched it in colour. Then the door behind opened suddenly, and a Kaffir lady, evidently the baby’s mother, and clad in a nightgown strongly resembling his, appeared in search of her family—and at sight of the two boys, uttered a refined shriek and disappeared as quickly as she had come. The baby, regarding this performance as a circus, laughed very heartily; and Jim and Wally fled.
In the business part of Durban itself there was even less sign of life than among the cottages they had left. The shop-fronts were closely shuttered, and everywhere there was silence. Once, down a side-street, they caught sight of a native policeman, trim and smart in his dark blue, close-fitting uniform, his shapely brown legs bare from his knickerbockers, and a jaunty blue cap on one side of his close-cropped curly head; but he did not see them, and they went on. Jim paused for a moment.
“We might ask that fellow where the market is,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Oh, he’s rather out of our way, isn’t he?” Wally answered, easily. “And policemen have such a knack of moving off when you go after them; and you have to chase them for blocks. We’re sure to come across somebody soon.” To which Jim acquiesced; and thereby lost a chance of saving a good deal of trouble.
It was not an interesting city. The streets were dusty and untidy, and in the gutters was a litter of rubbish that spoke eloquently of Saturday night shopping. As they drew further and further away from the business centre there were signs of more foreign occupation—queer inscriptions in divers languages over the doorways of shuttered shops, and occasional glimpses of Oriental wares in dingy windows belonging to shops that did not rise to the dignity of shutters. Sometimes they had a brief vision of curious eyes regarding them from behind half-drawn curtains. They met an old Kaffir slinking along the gutter in search of some unsavoury booty, and questioned him about the market; but either he knew no English, or did not wish to understand them, for he only blinked and uttered guttural and unintelligible words, holding out a knotted old hand for money. The boys gave him some coppers and strolled on.
“Well, Durban takes some beating, for laziness, if not for religious fervour,” Jim said, at length. “I never saw a place more painfully quiet—there may be a mixture of races, but they all observe the Sabbath so far as sleeping goes. We’ll have to give it up and turn back, pretty soon, since apparently we shall have to walk all the way home; trams and rickshaws are as sound asleep as the inhabitants.”
“There’s a chap who may know something,” said Wally, quickly.
They had turned into a narrow street, and a rickshaw was coming slowly along towards them, drawn by a big Zulu. It was a shabby rickshaw, and the Zulu himself bore none of the adornments of his brethren in more fashionable regions; he wore ordinary knickerbockers and a blue jumper, and a single black feather was stuck through his tight curls.
“What a dingy-looking beggar!” Jim said. “He looks as if he’s been up all night.”
“Probably he has, and he’s tired,” Wally answered. “Anyhow, he’s safe to know about the market.”
They hailed the Zulu, who did not, at first, seem inclined to stop. He regarded them with sleepy, unfriendly eyes, but without curiosity—though the tall, fresh-faced boys, in their light flannels and Panama hats, were sufficiently unfamiliar figures in that mean street in the early morning, before folk were awake. They repeated their question—in answer he grunted ill-temperedly and resumed his slow walk.
“Oh, bother!” said Jim. “I’d better give him something, and loosen his tongue.”
He drew out a loose handful of change and selected a small silver coin, holding it out to the Zulu. The man’s eyes lit up, and he stopped and backed to the footpath.
“We may as well take him, if he wants a fare,” Wally said. “It isn’t a luxurious-looking chariot, but it will do.”
“Market?” queried Jim. “You know the market?”
The Zulu looked vacantly at them for a moment.
“Gen’lemen want go to market?”
“Yes—native market; not white man’s,” Jim explained. “You know it?”
The man still hesitated.
“Yes,” he said at length. “You been there?”
“No,” said Jim, impatiently. “We want to go. Is it open on Sundays?”
“Yes,” said the Zulu, after a pause. “Take you?” He looked at them keenly.
“Yes—go ahead,” Jim said. They climbed into the rickshaw, and the Zulu jogged off.
He seemed to know his way readily enough. Up one poor street after another he trotted, his slow strides covering a great deal of ground. The locality grew more and more depressing: mean houses gave place to ramshackle cottages, many of them mere huts, separated by tumble-down fences, occasionally interspersed with grimy shops that were little more than stalls. Depressed-looking fowls scratched in the gutters, and mangy curs lay about every doorstep.
“Well, this is about as unpromising an approach to a market as one could imagine,” Jim remarked. “I’m glad we didn’t try to bring Norah—that kid hates smells.”
“Probably he’s taking us by short cuts,” Wally said; “he’s evidently tired, and this unsavoury rabbit-warren may lead out into the market-place. It can’t possibly be the usual approach; it’s too narrow, and there is no sign of much traffic.”
“I expect you’re right,” Jim answered. “Or else his happy home is in the locality, and he doesn’t mean to go past it. I’ll have a word to say to him, if he leaves us here.”
“You may, but it’s doubtful if he’ll understand you,” Wally grinned. “The conversation of these gentlemen is limited—though I fancy they understand a good deal more than one would think. Now, what’s his game?”
The rickshaw had swung round a corner, and into a yard, through an open gate. A closed house gave no sign of life; across the yard was a stable, and over the half-door a mule poked out a sleepy head. The Zulu put down the shafts and turned to the boys, saying something that was only half intelligible.
“Not can do?” Jim said angrily, catching his drift. “What do you bring us here for, then?” He got out, followed by Wally.
“Short cut,” said the man, apologetically. “Can show market—through there.” He pointed to a door in the high board fence. “Me bad feet—gone too many trips.”
“He looks footsore enough,” Wally said, scanning the slouching form. “No good bothering about him, Jim—let’s pay him and clear out.”
Another Zulu had come out of the stable, in which he appeared to have slept with the mule. The first man shot a short, clicking sentence at him, pointing to his feet.
“Well, I don’t know what he expects, but that’s all he’s going to get,” Jim said, handing the sullen Zulu some money. “Now, where’s your market?” he added, sharply. “Hurry up!”
“Market close through here, sir,” the man answered, more respectfully than he had yet spoken. He led the way to the door in the fence, the boys at his heels, and stood aside for them to pass through.
“Why, it’s another yard——” Jim began, turning.
He had no time for more. The Zulu’s fist shot out and took him between the eyes, and he staggered through the doorway. At the same instant a violent blow on the back of the head sent Wally headlong on top of his friend. They went down in a heap together, unable to defend themselves. A shower of blows with heavy sticks beat them back as they struggled to rise. Jim tried to shout, but his voice died away helplessly; he flung out his hand, finding only Wally’s face, strangely wet. Then he lost consciousness.